


What is black, white and blue and making Bucky climb the walls?

by Bishmonster



Category: CA:TWS - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol is a drug, Alternate Universe, Author does not know, Blue ain't your color, Bruce Banner is a crackpot, Bucky sings, Color Blindness, F/M, For the Win, For those of you who don't know, How the fuck do you spell molasses?, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I've vowed to never write a song fic, Keith Urban - Freeform, Not sure what I'm doing, PTSD, Pneumonia, Sings pretty, Slow Burn, Song fic, Therapy, These tags will change, When is therapy not therapy, Yum, fake movies are fake, funny how things change, like molasses, these tags are getting out of hand, when it's friendship, whiskey drinking, will there be drug use?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:33:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bishmonster/pseuds/Bishmonster
Summary: This is not a summary! So let me just say: I drive up a mountain after work in the wee hours of the night when I'm the only car on the winding road and where the brights of my high beams make the road seem endless. Inevitably "Blue ain't your color" plays and I thought, what if the blue of Darcy's eyes was the only color Bucky could see? Not sure how this will turn out. Let's find out together!On hiatus!!!!!!





	1. It started with a single malt scotch.

**Author's Note:**

> I will be changing the tags as this progresses and quite possibly the rating. Depends on how resistant Bucky is about taking off his shirt. Shy, you know. 
> 
> I need sleep.
> 
> Or to finish the Loki story, or the Wintershieldshock, or the one with Clint/Nat/Darcy. Those things aren't happening. Not yet at least.

Thursdays were always slow. It was a thing to get used to, to learn. A consistent pattern of human behavior that sometimes chaffed. The slow drag of time making the night feel like the endless fall of Alice in Wonderland. Boring and yet, over stimulating. The plums cigarette smoke drifting, blurring sight with an acrid burning in the nose, a sweet blaze at the back of the throat. The low hum of the neon signs, overwhelming with the buzz. Bucky could never fully tune them out no matter how hard he meditated. Bruce was wrong about it helping. Finding a quiet place brought nothing but dazed and painful memories and a deep dissatisfaction. It was running the bar, playing at chemistry and customer service, the distractions of maintaining a business that brought peace. And the music. The live music on the weekends from local bands. Some were shitty, untried and looking for a chance. Some were gems in the rough, making the place rock and rumble, a gentle roar of sound. A thumping behind the sternum. Then there was the old juke box still running on quarters. Bucky took care to swap out the music, bringing in the more modern sounds but he also made sure to keep the classics. And the quarter plays.

The best thing about Thursdays... he had time to play. To pluck at his thrift store guitar and crone the old songs. The songs his grandpa taught him. The songs his mother and father danced to in the kitchen when it rained.

He was playing when she walked in. And he kept playing as she sat down at the bar. She didn't look around. Didn't look up. Just waited. She was not a regular and she didn't look like the type to know any of the regulars. Her hair was dark, her skin was pale, and she was dressed in a variety of layers. Too many layers for the mid September heat. In a month it would be snowing outside, just enough to make the streets like sludge and cheeks chap from the chilly wind but for now it was hot. The kind of swampy hot that made wife-beaters popular and Daisy dukes migrate north. New York in an Indian summer. Bucky waited for her to take off her jacket, unwrap the scarf. She did neither. He finished up the song, fueled by curiosity. Old Jake made a murmur of protest but Bucky shot him a look. The old man shrugged and went back to his Seven and Seven.

"What can I get for you, doll?" She didn't look old enough to be in his bar. Old enough to drink... probably. He carded her. Barely, he amended. She was barely able to drink. Darcy Lewis, age 23, from Virginia. He hoped she didn't order some fancy assed suggestively named concoction.  Bucky catered to a specific clientele. Old dusty veterans for the most part. She was fifty years too young to be a part of that crowd.

"Glenlevit. Straight" Surprise bloomed. Bucky would have never guessed she would pick whiskey. And that voice!  Not deep but it was husky. Sexy in a throw back kind of way. A Black and White seductress. Which was fitting. He hadn't been able to see colors since he came back. Bruce said it was psychosomatic. A problem with his brain and not with his eyes. Bucky didn't care. It was easier to get used to than the other things. Sometimes he missed seeing the wild colors of the sunrise but these days he kept weird hours. He no longer rose before the sun. There was no reason to look at it. Or to miss it.

At least, that's what he told himself.

"Put it on my tab, Buck" Walter, another old and cantankerous old man, hollered. He was only three stools down but as deaf as a post. "Pretty little thing." The old man said out loud. Bucky watched her expression, saw her cheeks darken in a flush. Her mouth opened to protest.

"You look like his granddaughter Martha. She moved to Wisconsin last year." Bucky told her. It wasn't a lie. Walter spent many a nights bemoaning the loss, waving her picture around and bragging how she graduated NYU with honors. A doctor.

"Oh." The woman said with a small frown. She swiveled her stool. "Thank you." She said.

"What?" Walter asked. Bucky couldn't resist the eye roll.

Instead of repeating herself, she gave a thumbs up and a big grin. It was... startling to see the transformation of her face. And the gleam of blue in her wide pretty eyes. Bucky nearly dropped the bottle of whiskey. No one noticed. His reflexes were too fast even if his hand wasn't as dexterous in this design. The best the army could provide. It still made him feel clumsy. It also made him work harder. Learning guitar had been a bitch but worth it in the end. Bruce had encouraged him to make the new arm his own and that was exactly what Bucky had done. Even when everyone else said he couldn't. Or wouldn't. Seeing Steve cry a little, impressed, had been a balm.

Bucky poured her two fingers of the aged amber whiskey and set it down with his metal hand and a thump. She didn't seem to notice. She was already chatting with Walter about his granddaughter, the old man delighted to have a new audience.

The blue never went away. Not for a moment in the hours she was there, slowly sipping her whiskey. She seemed sad. A little lost if not friendly. Walter went home around nine, to watch the news he said. But everyone knew he tired out easier and easier these day. Being 80, it was more surprising how active the man was than how early he retired. Bucky made sure to get him a cab. Tipped extra to make sure the old man made it inside his building. Bucky played another couple of songs. Easy ones. Sticking to three cords because he was so thoroughly distracted. Why now? He wondered and he pondered. He poured more drinks and cleaned ashtrays. Smoked another cigarette. Washed empty glasses and threw out the beer bottles from the party of business men. She racked up quite the tab, sitting there staring into her glass, a little sad. A lot of lonely. Eyes as big and blue as the sky he barely ever looked up at anymore.

"Closing up soon, Doll." He didn't know why he was calling her that. Only that she looked like porcelain. Pale and breakable. He wanted her gone. He wanted to know everything about her. But mostly, Bucky wished he had never seen her face. Not that he would ever let her know any of that.

"What do I owe you?" She reached for her purse, a satchel really, with silly impractical buttons for decorations. One had a pickle on it. For no reason. Whimsy, he guessed. She looked like the type to appreciate whimsy.

"Twenty." He gruffed out, ignoring her squinty eyed stare. They both knew she owed double that. He just wanted her to pay and get out. He wanted to never, ever see her again. Had waited patiently for the time to come for her to tab out. The hard earned patience he had developed as a sniper. Now he was just as tense as if he were sighting a target. Bucky forcefully relaxed his body, waiting her out. Studiously not making eye contact with the vibrancy of the blue.

She huffed at him. A laugh with no humor. She slid a fifty across the worn wood of the bar. A salvage Steve had found. "Keep it." She uttered, low and hollow. Then she was gone.

For the first time since opening the bar, Bucky was glad the night was over.


	2. Honey in your whiskey: the equivalent of a spoon full of sugar to make that medicine go down, thank you very much Mary Poppins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Wanda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on the tail end of the previous chapter, then I had the longest day, which ended with me feeling like I got things done but also I was a little manic with sleep deprivation and the coffee sister bought and the espresso chocolate things brother-in-law brought home. Either way, I edited it after a pretty satisfying four hour nap so hopefully it makes sense. kinda rambling but it's written from the pov of Bucky's inner monologue. Please enjoy!

 

Two years was a long time to remember someone, even when they were the bringers of an anomaly. One quiet Thursday that rocked his carefully constructed little world led into a suspended anticipation. She hadn't come back. He would never admit it, but he waited. Tense and coiled as a snake, looking up with dread any time the door opened. The feeling never left. Bruce told him to embrace it. That it was ok to feel things. Bucky thought that was a load of shit. Everything was so much better when he was numb.  There was no pain. No anger. No sense of wrongness. Life had changed so suddenly. Dealing with the fallout was easier when it didn't fucking matter.

Wanda was in. It was Thursday again. The slow night. She was his only employee, barmaid, whatever, but on Thursdays she was the live music. It drew a crowd and Bucky toyed with the idea of hiring another employee. Wanda thought it was a good idea. The bar was busier now. The patrons less patient than when he only catered to the old war vets. Some had passed. Walter was still kicking but coming in less and less. Now the place was full of construction workers and cops and younger military veterans. Bucky was having a hard time rationalizing his little hole in the wall bar as an legitimate establishment. It was actually making money these days instead of sucking his resources dry. Weird. It hadn't hurt having Steve around. His buddy, his pal. His childhood best friend and the man that brought him back from the brink of crazy. With Bruce's help. Part of Steve's deal in being the silent partner was weekly sessions with the good Doctor.

Steve had put up half the money for the bar. Did the labor himself when they remodeled. Suggested subletting the apartments above for added revenue. Bucky had balked at the apartment thing. He didn't need the security risk. Strangers near his home in the middle of the night? No thanks. He had come a long way from the early days of paranoia and depression but he just did not want a bunch a people running around being loud and messy in a place he had designed to be safe.  Bucky had remodeled his own apartment and left the others for dust. Now Steve was making noises about getting them done, fixing them up. Bucky argued about the noise of construction, the inconvenience of debris. Steve had fixed him with the "dumb as a box of rocks" look and quoted impressive numbers about the money an apartment in New York could make. Bucky didn't care about the money. He did care about his peace and quiet. So now Steve was in the bar nearly every night trying to change his mind, sometimes alone, sometimes bringing this friend or that friend or a friend of a friend.

Mostly that no good, rotten Sam Wilson, best friend stealer.

Bucky was perfectly aware Sam Wilson was a nice person. Ex military working at the VA as a counselor. Steve had met him when Bucky had been in the hospital. Had talked to Sam when Bucky refused to speak to anyone. Sam did volunteer work. And he was kind to his mother.  Bucky couldn't compete with that. On a good day he was taciturn and quiet. On an ok day he was mostly an asshole. Sam was a fucking ray of positivity. From the moment they met, Steve had crawled so far up the gentleman's ass, he'd forgotten what daylight was.  Not that Bucky could blame him. Part of the reason Steve found a new friend was because Bucky had pushed him away. It was a thing he was working on. A thing he discussed with Bruce but never Steve. How could he tell his best childhood friend that he was different now. That the Bucky that had come back from the war was now more and less of a man and not carefree or reckless like he had been in the past. That he held resentment and pain and spent entire weeks reliving one hour of hell while trying not to burden anyone. That relearning to live, coping with a fake arm, was a kind of torture. That Steve saw him as damaged, which Bucky thought was kind of shitty for a best friend. But he did not know how to say any of these things to him. Honesty was not always the best policy, sometimes honesty was just fucking hurtful.

And Steve, brilliant and talented and small of stature, tried so hard to be there for Bucky. Had taken a semester off of Art School to stay by Bucky's side. Had put up with the self pity and the drinking and the anger. Steve had found the bar. Encouraged the idea with stipulations. Steve wanted Bucky in therapy. When Bucky finally agreed, Steve put up half the money with a dumbass smile on his face. It was debt Bucky could never repay. Steve shrugged it off with an "it's the right thing to do Buck."  Sure anyone would agree but only Steve would implement it. Sometimes Bucky just couldn't stand the sight of him. Bruce told him this was perfectly normal.

Sometimes Bruce was a crackpot.

As much as Bucky loved Steve, it had been three years now and nothing had changed. Nothing. Steve was just as oblivious as ever. For a man with such an eye for the beautiful, with such a talent at capturing a thing and wrestling it onto canvas, he was absolute shit at seeing the clues laid out in front of him. Bucky was grateful for it as much as it rubbed him raw. Resentment was a low level burn in his belly. He was absolutely afraid one day he might snap. The only thing holding him back was his unwillingness to hurt the one person that had always been there for him.

Even if he was driving him absolutely fucking insane.

Wanda did her set. Bucky played his guitar when she needed her hands free. Some of the customers got restless, waiting for their refills. Bucky really did need to make a hire. Part time. To fill in when Wanda needed a night off. Or when he did. It was startling to realize he was in a place where he could afford to do that. To take a night away from the bar because he wanted to. He should make a sign. "NOW HIRING" in big bold letters. Bucky shuddered, thinking about the interviews. Maybe he'd make Steve do it. Yeah. Nope. He was too much of a control freak to let that happen. Bruce had even stopped trying to convince him to learn to delegate.

Bucky had tried once and look where it had gotten him.

"Nice job." He commented to Wanda when things were winding down and she was counting her tip jar. She nodded her head, acknowledging the compliment for what it was. High praise from a man prone to grunting as a valid form of communication. He liked Wanda. She was quiet and simple like him with no real attitude or ego. And she didn't act like a silly school girl even though she was young. Maybe it was because she wasn't raised in America. Maybe it was because she was an old soul from the old country like his Grandpa had been. Bucky didn't actually care, he just liked her work ethic and her quiet nature.

"See you tomorrow night." She said before she left, accent dripping like honey. He nodded at her, elbow deep in soapy water. The bar was empty and mostly dark. She was waiting for her ride, her boyfriend Jack. Bucky had met him once. Tall and quiet with dark hair and large knuckles. Bucky hadn't thought much of him. Wanda didn't speak about him but Bucky suspected he had money. The clothing he wore, the apartment she shared with him. The fact that he owned his own car and rented a spot to park it. Not that any of that mattered. Wanda and Bucky's working relationship was uncomplicated. Simple. All the things Bucky strived for when it came to peopling. She worked hard and was never late. She wasn't pushy. She didn't ask stupid questions and she kept her distance. If only Steve could take some pointers from her. Bucky actually longed for a world full of Wanda's. People who knew how to be quiet. To get the job done, mind their own business and then go the fuck home. Easy Peasy. Bucky knew he was being unrealistic. The world didn't operate that way. It couldn't. Despite his vision, nothing was black and white. Didn't stop Bucky from wanting it though.

The door, which should have been locked by Steve when he said goodnight, opened with a jingle from the two small bells around the handle. Bucky's head shot up and his heart pounded. The reaction was unwarranted and unnecessary. Until he saw who it was.

"Is it too late for a drink?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this chapter. I have a feeling this whole fic will be a struggle because Bucky's voice is the hardest for me to find. Maybe it's because I love him so. Maybe it's because I over think it too much. Maybe it's because my inner voice resembles Tony Stark. Anywho. I hope you like it. And if you don't feel free to let me know why.


	3. Feel the burn: a study in irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the land of exposition! Bring snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg! The wonderful tattookink sent me this link! Check it out because yes it does along with the story. [Love and Hate by Michael Kiwanuka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMZ4QL0orw0)
> 
> This is what my sister, [DomesticatedTendencies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DomesticatedTendencies/pseuds/DomesticatedTendencies) wrote for me. Its a Bethyl fluff and amazing!!!!   
> [That the best you got](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11980011)
> 
> and this is the song I've listened on repeat play for the last several days which is making me a little crazy but is totally worth it:   
> [Blue ain't your color](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SoIKv3xxuMA)

He was cold. Shivery with it. The apartment was thoroughly insulated and he just couldn't get warm enough. Not even with the heater going, though it was only October. Not after the hot shower or the thick socks and sweatpants. Not even with the tea Bruce had recommended when things got bad. Hot with a shot of whiskey. Whiskey. Whiskey like fire. Whiskey poured over ice to crack and clink. She hadn't stayed long. Just long enough for him to finish cleaning up the bar. He hadn't been able to turn her away. Not when it had been so long. Not when the blue was back and blazing, burning into his retinas like the hot desert sun was forever in his dreams. 

She had sat quietly. Sipping but not lingering. She promised to not inconvenience him not knowing how badly she had already failed. Inconvenience wasn't the right word. It was too mild. She had thrown him off his axis. A globe untethered. Shrugged to the ground with no by-your-leave. The quiet rage that lived behind his ribcage grew with each sweep of the floor, each chair over turned and set on it's table, each soft sigh and holy shit was she crying? Bucky had eyeballed her across the room in horror. Their eyes met in the mirror behind the bar. She blinked rapidly and said nothing. His mouth hung open and his knuckles tightened on the broom. She swallowed and stood. 

"How much." she asked. 

He shook his head at her letting his grown out hair fall over his face. She frowned and her lower lip protruded, her body poised in a way that indicated she was reaching for her wallet. 

"We're closed." He barked out. His guts were twisted around sharp knives. He needed her to leave. Right now.

"Fine." she huffed and stomped to the door. In any other situation he would have found her adorable. 

Fine. He agreed silently as she slammed the door closed. He raced over to lock it unwilling to take the chance she might come back inside. His heart was racing and his brain was throbbing. Bucky leaned his head against the wood and tried to focus on his breathing. Tried to calm himself down. It had been two years! And she finally showed back up. Where the hell had she been? And with whom? Fuck. It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. He was in a good place. He didn't need this in his life. Things were easy. Black and White and Simple. 

Bucky shuddered again. He had finished cleaning up and locked up the money, then climbed the stairs to his apartment. He shucked his clothing, detached the arm, peeled off the sleeve. His skin was chapped around the edges. He needed to apply the balm again. The shower had to come first. Hot. Steamy. Burning. He was trying to erase any thoughts of her, relishing the pain of the too hot water. Trying to dispel the urge to drag her back and question the shit out of her. Who was she anyway? Why could he see the color of her eyes? None of it made any sense. None of it meant anything. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all. Just like nothing will change. 

His arm was still gone. His men were all... still dead. 

The bed was too big. The mattress too soft. Too cold. Bucky stripped the blankets and carried his pillow to the couch. It was wide enough and deep enough and long enough for him to sleep on comfortably, balancing his residual arm against the back of the couch. He buried himself in the blankets and turned on the flat screen. Westerns were nice. Westerns were good. The old six shooter sound was nothing like the pop pop pop of modern guns. Westerns reminded him of Saturday mornings at Steve's house when his housekeeper would make them bacon and eggs and they would play in the living room like it was goddamn Bonanza. The ache was there, the one he had successfully managed to ignore for the better part of three years. The nostalgia. The friendship. She had done this. She had opened this door he wanted to keep closed. Bucky wished she would stay away for another two years. For another twenty years.

Bucky wondered what Bruce would call the overwhelming urge to track her down. 

No. This wouldn't do at all. If and when she came back, Bucky would man up and ask her to leave. He had the right to refuse service to anyone. He didn't have to justify his actions. He didn't have to answer to anyone. It was his bar. Yeah, Steve owned half, but it was Bucky's bar. Said so right in the name. 

He fell asleep thinking about the whiskey order. There was only one bottle of Glenlevit left. He was gonna need more. 

 

*************

 

Darcy shivered with chills. The whiskey, even free whiskey and what the fuck was that about, wasn't enough to keep her warm. Not in her apartment beneath two thread worn blankets and wrapped up in her wooliest sweater. October in New York was chilly but this low grade fever was kicking her ass. It wasn't nearly as bad as it would have been in rainy balls London. Two years across the pond and she was glad to be back in the states, in the familiar. Even if she had been dropped like a sack of potatoes. Stupid back stabbey Jane and her stupid new facility with her stupid over-qualified shiny new interns. Ok, so maybe Jane wasn't as back-stabbey as she could've been. Darcy suspected Thor's influence. Working for Stark Industries mailroom was actually a higher paying job. Any job was actually a higher paying job. She hadn't been paid at all while she took care of Depressed!Jane. So much for their friendship. So much for their booze fuelled girl's night and watching the stars on the roof of Jane's mom's apartment. Bullshit is what that was. Total bullshit. But Thor, the son of Norwegian royalty, had been a good bro. The kind of bro to make sure Darcy had a job before being shipped back to the states. He had even set her up with a rent controlled apartment. Sure, it was in a shitty neighborhood and she couldn't afford electricity but at least she had a roof over her head. 

The whole bar thing had been a lark. She had found Bucky's the last time she had been in New York when her Opa died. They hadn't been close. The old man was mean and cantankerous, having left the family when her Oma had died ten years ago, not even showing up when his son and daughter-in-law died after Darcy's first year of college. He had been the last of her family. The last link tethering her to anywhere. She was free as much as she was alone. So yeah. Whiskey had sounded good. Whiskey had sounded great. And Bucky's was just there across the street from her Opa's apartment. She finished packing up and headed over. The night had been soothing. The bartender, handsome and distant, didn't try to hassle her. The old men reminded Darcy of her Opa before he became a bitter hermit. The whiskey had burned just the way she wanted it to. 

The next day she had gone to London to intern for one Jane Foster, Astrophysics. Instead of spending her last semester bored out of her skull in a classroom, she signed up for the internship, finishing the rest of her classes online. It was real world experience and looked good on her application. She graduated and stayed with Jane, enjoying the work, enjoying having a friend she had considered family. Darcy Lewis, grade-A fool. 

Then there was that whole fiasco with Ian Boothby. The beginning of the end. 

Darcy shivered again. There was no use thinking about it anymore. The whole thing was over and she was 3.500 miles away. Fresh start and all that bullshit. Darcy shivered her way into fevered dreams and didn't wake until she was nearly late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter... Darcy and Wanda meet. Bucky isn't happy about it. Surprise, surprise.


	4. Whiskey sours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes men are just plan awful.

 

 

Shit days were shitty and the cough making her look like SARS victim wasn't helping. Darcy rubbed the tender skin burning beneath her eyes. Her concealer was long gone and the dark bruises there flashed like neon. It wasn't a good look for her but honestly, half dead with the flu was a good look for no woman. Or man. She wouldn't wish the flu on anyone. Ok. Lie. She was a lying liar. Her dick boss could do with a bout of misery. And maybe a swift kick to the balls. If he touched her butt one more time she was going to unemployed and liable. It was pathetic.

Grabby-hands McGee was in his fifties, balding and had a prominent beer belly. These things would be inconsequential if he wasn't a bag of dicks and sexually harassing half of the mailroom employees. She wasn't the only female employee to experience his special brand of attention and Darcy was seriously considering a protest. With poster board and glitter paint. Yes, quick escalation. They should be able to go to HR to get this problem taken care of. If Thetcher wasn't just as bad as McGee. They probably belonged to the same He-Man Woman Hating Club. Membership was free and came with the Lecherous Smirk and Stubby Finger Pinch, patent fucking pending.

Darcy had been working for Stark Industries for a month and already she was looking for another job. Maybe she could waitress like she did in college, or maybe do something with cupcakes. Cupcakes sounded fucking delicious. Honestly, anything would be better than the daily, sometimes hourly uncomfortableness that was SI Mailroom.

Darcy trudged down the sidewalk. It was getting colder or she was getting sicker and that was some kind of bullshit. She didn't want to go home so she wrapped her pea-coat more tightly around her waist and shoved her bare hands into her pockets. Her rent was paid and she had some dollars. She needed a drink.

 

***********

 

 She was back. Again. Like clockwork. Every fucking Thursday for a month. Bucky was on stage playing softly. Something mild and mindless, practiced enough times he no longer had to pay attention to where his fingers were. It was only a little startling to realize he didn't have to force his prosthetic hand into holding the pick. How his brain was adapting to using the opposite hand. His physical therapists had told him it would take a long time to get used to. Constant practice would make proficient but it hadn't really. Time was flexible. The moments after the blast had taken centuries. The recovery time, less slow. The night time was eons long. His time on stage flew right by. Except when she was there.

Wanda was pouring her a drink. His normal serious employee was smiling and helpful and listening. The bartender's eyes were lit in a way that meant she actually was enjoying the conversation. The back of Bucky's throat burned and he itched to put his guitar down. Darcy coughed. Hard. Hard enough for him to frown with it's severity. She sounded bad and a couple of patrons were looking her way with disgusted looks on their faces. Foolish girl should be in bed.

If she were his girl, he'd put her there.

What a strange thing to think. She was never gonna be his girl. Maybe before... but now... just, no. Bucky angled his gaze to the mirror, to see her face. She looked pale. Paler than usual and Bucky continued to frown. Wanda caught his eye with a quizzical brow. He nodded to her, finished his set and put his guitar in it's battered case.

"Barnes!" Sam Wilson's teeth gleam the kind of white only seen in toothpaste commercial. It was like the man had never drank a cup of coffee or smoked a cigarette in his life. Bucky didn't allow the sneer he felt to cross his face. He was too busy dodging the handshake from Steve's new best friend. No thanks. Bucky ducked behind the bar only for Sam to park it next to the other bane of his existence. Her chapped pink lips parted in surprise. Goddammit. It was spreading. Whatever it was. Blue eyes and pink soft lips were ruining his quiet existence, damn her. Damn her! He was coping just fine! He didn't need this!

"Sarge that was some damn fine playing." Wilson praised. He was always saying something nice, whip marks on the back of Bucky's knees.

"Not a Sarge anymore." He couldn't help but growl.

'Right. Right. Got it. I understand man. But damn Barnes, that was impressive." Wilson's grin was wide and sincere. Bucky wanted to punch him and crack those perfect teeth. Instead, he nodded and took off to the stockroom. "Employees Only" was a thing he was not afraid to take advantage of. Plus there were cobwebs that needed to be taken care of. Wanda knew how to get his attention if she needed it. It was only a little convenience that he could still see Darcy. If that was a thing he wanted.

Which it was not.

 

 ******************

   
Darcy watched the bartender called Barnes skulk off to the back of the building. He was in a worse mood than usual. Not that he was ever in a good one. It had something to do with the damn fine black man sitting next to her. Wanda knew him, greeting him warmly and had no outward animosity toward the man. Barnes was just being a surly fuck again. Sam ordered a beer and sweet talked Wanda until the girl's cheeks flushed prettily. A few more men came in. One was a little guy, blonde and spunky, dressed like hipster in his giant grandpa sweater. He went to the back and when he didn't come flying out in terror, she assumed he knew the bartender.

Another man entered the bar. He sat down on her other side. Darcy's instincts, keen from McGee's wandering hands, were on high alert. He had that look, snake oil hidden behind handsome features and nice hair. She didn't trust that look and scoot closer to that Sam guy. Sam made a face that could only be qualified as curious.

"Hey sweetheart." The newcomer said. Yup. Like he fucking knew her which he didn't.  Darcy didn't respond. Not until he kicked the base of her stool. What the fuck?

"What?" She kind of yelled, getting the attention of half the bar.  His smarmy face grimaced and she grinned in satisfaction. Then he did a thing that made her skin coil. He ran his hand from her shoulder over her hair down her back to settle on her ass as he leaned into her space.

"Play nice sweetheart." It wasn't remotely suggestive at all, but it was menacing. Darcy felt threatened the tone. The tone had her reaching in her coat pocket for her handy dandy... and he was gone. What? What just happened? Smarmy dude was gone in the blink of an eye, being hauled out the door forcefully by an eerie faced Mr. Barnes. Darcy blinked after the two men and didn't even react when she saw the creeper land face first into the side walk.

"Might want to put that away." That Sam guy said, looking pointedly at her taser. "Those are illegal in New York." He sipped his beer and acted like nothing had happened.

"That's dumb." Darcy said, then nearly fell off her stool in a violent hacking cough. She tried to cover her mouth as much as she could until finally she was just fucking done. She laid her head down on the bar and sobbed a little. What a fucking day. What a fucking month. What a fucking year. She was destined to be ...

"Let's get you home. My boyfriend is coming soon and he can drive us home." The girl bartender, Wanda, was stroking Darcy's hair. She had come around the other side and Sam had given her space when he joined the slender blonde hipster boy.

Darcy shook her head pitifully. "There's no need. I'm only a few blocks down." She told the girl.

"Take her home." Came a grunt from behind her. Mr. Barnes did not look pleased. He never really did. More stoic and a wee bit judgey but now he looked down right displeased.

"Why can't I stay?" She really, really did not want to go home to her crappy apartment to spend the long night alone thinking about all the things that happened, or could've happened or should've happened.

"Don't want you here." He starred her dead in the eye but she wasn't sure he was actually seeing her there. He was wiping his hand on a dry dish rag he used to wipe condensation off the bar.

"Bucky!" The blonde hipster cried out in protest, eavesdropping from his table.

"Mr. Barnes." Wanda exclaimed at the same time. Her voice clearly shocked. Her eyes as wide and open as her face.

"She's trouble." He said to no one in particular and that was the rudest most accurate thing anyone had ever told her in her life. She was trouble. She had been told often enough. Didn't make it any less hurtful to hear. Wanda did her a solid and wrapped her arm around Darcy. She was thankful because, to be honest, she didn't think her legs would hold her up anymore. It was either the adrenaline drop or she really was in bad shape, heath-wise. Either way she left without protest, throwing her last ten on the counter and limping out with a skinny, slightly overprotective Slavic girl.

Weird night.

"I cannot believe he said that to you. Of all the things! Rude. That man is rude!" She was throwing up slender hands and shaking her long brownish red hair. "I mean, I've always been a little bit afraid of him. The reputation and all but I have never seen him treat anyone with so little respect. Wanda steered her toward the door throwing shady looks behind their back. Mr. Barnes was gone but Wanda wasn't over being pissed on her behalf yet.

Darcy didn't protest. It felt too good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta pointed out the difference from residual and prosthetic so for anyone who read it before I fixed it... I apologize!


	5. Gary Allen's song on the Jukebox the author played during most of her twenties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody lies. White lies are just as damaging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is a little bit outside of my purview and I hope my readers bear with me.

"You seem stressed." Bruce gave no greetings or how do you do's.  He was seated as his desk, making notes on a steno pad. Desk just as cramped and overflowing with files as always.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Bucky's heels were in the sand. No way in hell did he want to bring up the thing. It was too over stimulating. He just wanted his life to stay simple. And they would if he could just ignore it.

"It's your face. Gives you away every time." Bruce's smile was kind. He was always kind. When he wasn't being a snarky bastard.

"Observant fuck." Bucky groused.

"It's a gift." Bruce shrugged but his face was still open, brown eyes soft, listening. Bucky had no response. For several long minutes. Bruce swiveled back and forth in his desk chair, waiting him out. But the Doctor broke first. Bucky had been interrogated enough to know how to keep his damn mouth shut. Hell there wasn't even any torture.

"We can play verbal tennis or you can tell me what's bothering you." Bruce's voice never wavered. He was just as calm and placid as every. It made Bucky tense up. No one was that in control of their emotions. It was suspicious.  Bruce had been his therapist for the better part of three years and Bucky had never seen him lose his temper. Not even when Bucky lost his.

"I got a thing to deal with. I don't want to talk about it. Not yet."

"Are you dealing with it?" Bruce's eyebrow was cocked and he stopped the pen scratches. Bucky huffed in response.

"Not ready yet." Probably never would be.

"Is it physical or mental?" and then "Have you been taking your meds?"

"You know I don't need those, Doc." Bucky scoffed. He wasn't taking any fucking pills just to feel better. "They make my head all fuzzy."

"That's fair. Have you been sleeping?" Bruce had this ability to write while maintaining eye contact. Sometimes, most times, it gave Bucky the heeby-jeebies.

"Yeah." They both knew it was a lie. The night was too long. The hours too far apart. Bucky could only watch so much crap television. Could only do so many sit ups. And the drinking... well, he made promises and this was one he was going to keep. No matter how tempting. Plus, drinking was no better than the damn pills.

"You didn't answer my question." Bruce paused for a response. When he didn't get one, he continued. "About if the "thing" was physical or mental?"

"I ain't crazy."

"You keep lying to me, Bucky. There's no harm in having a neurological response to trauma." Bruce looked at him reproachfully. "But you are right, you are not crazy. At least when it comes to institutional standards."

"Fuck." Bucky couldn't stand sitting anymore. They'd gone over this.  Over and over and over until it was like a damn twangy country song in his head. The kind he knew all the words to and didn't like at all. The kind he never could quite shut off when it came on. Familiar and annoying and reverberating in his skull.

"I'm not trying to push you. You've made more progress than the majority of my patients and most of it without my help. But everybody needs someone to talk to. You know that in this room, I will never judge you, never shun you. This is a safe place Bucky."

"I look like a millennial to you?" He actually was insulted.

"No.' Bruce frowned. "I will give you that some of the newer generation's hang-ups are... lazy. Instead of dealing with their dilemmas, they make excuse for why they should be catered to. That is my opinion, not a fact. Every person faces demons differently. I'm just letting you know... that here, in my office, you can say whatever you need to say without fear of judgement."

Bucky eyed the doc with as much suspicion as he had on his first day, when he was skinny with nerves and twitchy from the pain. Bruce had gotten older. It showed in the gray at his temple and the laugh lines around his eyes. Bucky knew Bruce wasn't trying to trick him. To tease him. But paranoia came with the whole mess that was his life after the military. And to be honest, some came before.

"I was mean. Cruel actually. To someone who didn't deserve it." Bucky stayed standing at parade rest and fixed his gaze on the wall behind Bruce, somewhere between his diploma and a picture of a toothless kid grinning while hugging a big breedless dog. Bruce laid down his pen, the picture of full attention. 

"It wasn't right." Bucky continued. "She... she was in the bar. Some guy got fresh and I asked him to leave." Yeah, like he would've wasted words on that slimy fuck. "And then... I said some hateful stuff just to get her gone."

"She was pretty." Bruce said more than asked.

"Yeah." Bucky drawled.

"Was there violence involved?" Bruce was too damn smart for his own good. "When you asked the guy to leave?"

Bucky hadn't even remembered punching the guy until he'd seen the blood on the ground and the fucker staring up at him in fear. Then all he had felt was sick. Sick of himself and sick of the metallic smell of blood. Then to go back in and all he could feel was satisfaction she was safe and whole and staring up at him in wide eyed wonder. He just couldn't take it. The blender of emotions churning. He missed his calm. Missed his peace. Would do just about anything to get it back and now? Well, now, he regretted it.

"I'm going to assume that's a yes. It's impressive that a human face can resemble a statue so quickly. It is a tell though. You might want to work on it. As for the other thing, my suggestion is to apologize. It's clearly eating you up on the inside and I'm pretty positive you don't want that knocking around in your gut for long." Bruce went back to his note taking. Bucky appreciated the semblance of privacy to get his walls back into place. "I will ask you this and I want you to think about it long and hard and to call me if and when you are ready to talk about it. What makes her so important?"

"She's not." Bucky grit out between his teeth.

"Keep up that lying, Buck. See how far that gets you."

Bucky left shortly after. The walk home was brisk. The wind had picked up. He spent the entire walk wondering if she was at home in bed, nursing that cough. If she had soup. If she needed pain meds or a blanket. He was nearly back to the bar before he realized. Anger burned bright and the urge to punch the door to his apartment upstairs was a barely controlled inferno.

 

*************

 

Darcy was not at home or in bed. The mailroom was short staffed and instead of sorting, she was delivering. Suckfest. She had spent more time on the elevator than actually handing out mail and that was just some kind of torture. To see her bleary eyed reflection, mouth slack from too much Dayquil and the inability to breath. Hair a frizzy and untamed mess. She felt like shit. She looked liked shit. Life was shit. Ok. So she had a job and an apartment. Things could be worse. But her body ached like a heavy anvil had crashed down on her and now she was the cartoon accordion aftermath. Then there was the coughing. Ugh. The coughing.

She was trying to hold it in. Trying not to see the disgusted lip curls and recoiling heads when she couldn't. McGee was an idiot for putting her out among the people. She was an idiot for not staying at home and resting. But she needed the money to badly. There was no question she would work until she couldn't anymore.

"You look gross." He was short and practically vibrating with glee. He had a warped piece of metal in his hand and a soldering iron in the other.

"You look like a douche." It was the facial hair. And probably she should not have said that. She tensed up and didn't relax even when he barked out a laugh.

"I've been called worse." He shrugged.

"I'm not at my best." Damn her mouth. Why couldn't she keep it shut.

"Clearly," he sneered with no malicious intent. "You're new. What brings you to the lab?"

"Mail." She held up a stack of envelops with no name just the lab number.

"Ew. No. Germs." He pointed to a mostly cleared off table. Darcy shuffled over and laid the stack down. She had to pause for a moment and get her bearings. The room was all tilt-y. Huh.

"Hey. Hey. Hey. You're not gonna pass out. You look pale and sick and like you're gonna pass out and that's just not something I want to deal with right now."

She had to clear her throat several times. It was so dry. "Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Nope. NO. No. Do not pass out." He was standing and pointing at her like that was going to help.

"I'm ok." Her voice sounded like sandpaper and her eyes didn't want to stay open. She just had to get out. Darcy took a step and then another one. She had to get somewhere where she could sit down. Then she would feel better. Just needed some rest was all. No big deal.

"Fuck. Kid. Do not fall and crack your head. Just let me..." he did her a solid and steered her toward a rolling stool. "What are you even doing at work today. Foolish. You've no business being around other people. Jesus Christ, you sound like you have pneumonia. Fuck. Who do I call. I don't ever get sick. Ambulance? Your mother?" He pushed calloused hands through his ink black hair.

"Neither." She was finding it hard to find any breath. He might be on to something about the pneumonia. She really was a fucking idiot.

"Oh! I know!" He cried out. "I'll call Pepper."

"I don't feel like Mexican." she managed before everything went kind of wrong and dark and she knew nothing.


	6. Metallica sang it best.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Wanda!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Sister for the beta action Jackson!!!!!! I wish we could do this all night. 
> 
> P.S. I'm ready for my bethyl fluff. please and thank you homie.

 

"Mr. Barnes." Wanda was hovering. She very rarely displayed nerves but now they were the too bright white of the summer sun. Inescapable to not notice and itching his skin like mosquito bites. Bucky sighed inaudibly and put down his inventory count. They were running low on the shitty vodka and ginger beer.

"Ms. Maximoff." It chaffed the way she said his name. A little bit afraid. A little bit reverent. He wished she could be as stoic and unassuming as she had been her first few months. Before he found out about her singing. Before she yelled at him for over an hour for being rude and inconsiderate to a "very nice woman." To Darcy.

"I need to take a personal day." She said it in a rush, making aborted movements with her elegant hands.

"No." was his automatic response. He cursed when she flinched. She'd been doing that more and more lately. "Are you in trouble?" He pointedly looked at her flat stomach shrouded by a black t-shirt with the Rolling Stone's lips on it. It glittered for Christ sake.

"What do you...Mr. Barnes! That is none of your business!" She cried out. He expected her to storm off like all the other women he had known. His sister had it down to an art. Wanda didn't skulk off. She squared her shoulders and leveled him with an unamused stare. "I just found out my friend is in the hospital. For a whole week. She is very ill and doesn't have any family to care for her. They won't release her unless she has a caregiver to take her home." A sheen of wet blanketed her eyes. More silver glitter in his gaze.

"I'll call Klein in for tomorrow but I need you back here on Monday." That gave her two full days to take care of her friend. To get her head on straight.

"Thank you." Her chin was up but her eyes were down, shamefaced for the tears. Bucky ignored when she wiped them away furiously. Something else was going on with her. He didn't ask. There wasn't a peep out of her for the rest of the night. Not even after closing when he waited for her boyfriend to show so he could lock up. He ignored when she tensed up as the sleek black car pulled to the curb a half hour late.

"Monday." He reminded her and she nodded, this time her chin was in her chest and she was clutching her apron and purse like they were about to be snatched away.

 

 ***************

 

"This doesn't seem right." The nurse was tall and strong, a woman of mixed race, features heavily Latino but she might've been part black. She had cheekbones for days and Darcy was very, very jealous of her calm and capable manner. She could never quite pull of that amount of efficiency if she had a year to plan. Unfortunately, Claire the nurse was not letting Darcy check herself out of the hospital. "She needs to stay in bed. Listen for any fluids in her lungs. Make sure she sleeps sitting up." Nurse Claire was very specific. "These are all the samples I could get for you. If you need more you'll need to get the prescription filled. That's all I can do." She raised her hands half way in the air.

She probably should stay. Claire's protests were unfounded. Darcy still felt a little bit like death was playing kick ball in her lungs. But to be frank, Darcy just couldn't fucking afford it anymore. Wanda was doing her a solid. She had shown up bright and early to help the process along. "I promise to make sure she rests and takes her medication." Wanda's accent was incredibly sincere. Darcy was afraid she was going to keep her word.  Not about the meds thing. About work. If she still had a job. Did she still have a job? Pathetic. Just pathetic, Darcy Lewis. She hadn't been able to get past the embarrassment of collapsing at work.

And in front of Tony Stark, the freaking progeny of SI.

It was pretty fucking terrible from her viewpoint. She couldn't take another sleepless night in the hospital dwelling on it. Thank gravy for Wanda. Wanda to the rescue! She totally deserved a monogramed t-shirt.

The cab ride was silent. The two women lost in their own thoughts as the city went by. Day Time New York was an entirely different atmosphere than the Night Life. It was like living in a parallel universe and not entirely comforting. Wanda seemed to sense Darcy's distressed and laid her palm on the back of Darcy's knuckles. She squeezed her hand and didn't acknowledge her in any other way, face turned out the window. It was one of the sweetest gestures Darcy had ever experienced.

"Do you work tonight?" Wanda, true to her word had bundle Darcy into bed with a cup of hot tea and a paperback. Darcy wasn't sure where she had procured the book and the mug but was thankful none-the-less.

"Monday." Wanda said simply. She was gathering the pile of clothes in the corner of the room. Darcy saw her surprise when she found the cheap bent plastic laundry basket. "Where is the laundry room?"

"You don't have to do this." Darcy protested. There was no laundry room. Not in this building. There had been one once. Rumor had it.

"I do not mind." Wanda said gruffly.

"Please. Don't." Darcy said. She couldn't help the plea in her voice. It was too much. Wanda was being too kind for a near stranger.

"I like you. You are the first friend I have made in this place."

"That cannot be true."

"It is."

"You have your boyfriend. He sounds nice." Or maybe not. A shadow crossed the young girl's face. Her knuckles tightened around Darcy's soiled clothing.

"It is not the same." Wanda finally told her. "My brother has always been my friend. Always tried to keep me from being so serious. You do that too."

"I send you silly memes and talk trash at a bar I'm not even allowed in anymore."

"Mr. Barnes has heard my displeasure on the matter." Wanda smirked. "His ears rang for hours afterward."

"Score." Darcy raised her hand up in the universal sign of the high-five. Wanda's attempt was awkward at best. She more pressed her palm to Darcy's than slapped it. Darcy shrugged and grinned at her. It was something to work on. "I like you too, Wanda." She contemplated her new socially backward friend. "Can you stay? I have Dead Uprising 3 on my laptop."

"Jeffery Dean Morgan is... how do you say... the cat's meow?"

Wanda was good people.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead Uprising 3 Starring Jeffery Dean Morgan does not exist yet. In film or on AO3. One will happen quicker than the other and you will be able to find it here when she posts the dang old dangin thing: 
> 
>  
> 
> [DomesticatedTendencies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DomesticatedTendencies/pseuds/DomesticatedTendencies)


	7. On hiatus

Sorry folks: I'll be back soon!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the emotionality and impulse control of being a Libra. Please comment and let me know if you like or if I should just stop and hang up the keyboard. Or just kudo. I like kudos too. MMMMMM. Chocolate.


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